The shadow of the eagle

Did you not know it? Had I not a wife and children, I should have long ago ...' He had broken off, seeing the pathetic declaration make her smile.

'Ah, Nathaniel, how,' she had paused, 'how damnably English.'

'Do not taunt me. Upon occasions, you have made my life wretched. You have resided in my soul as a dark angel. Tonight you are dispossessed of all the diabolism with which my imagination had invested you. For that I am grateful.'

They had let each other go.

'They you will see that I am provided for?'

'You know I will.'

'Yes... Yes I did. To that extent your superstitions were correct.' She smiled again.

'You are returning to Paris?' Seeing her nod, he had gone on, 'There is a bookseller in the rue de la Seine whose name is Michel. There, in a month, you will find a draft against a London bank. I shall make it out in the name Hortense de Montholon. Should anything go awry, you may send a message through the Jew Liepmann in Hamburg.'

'You are doing this yourself aren't you? This is nothing to do with the British government, is it?'

'Hortense, the British government will not give Nelson's mistress a pension; why should they do anything for you? I know of you and thanks to the fortune of war, I have the means to make a little money available for you.'

'You are very kind, Nathaniel. Had life been different, perhaps ...'

'Perhaps, perhaps; perhaps in happier times we shall meet again. Let us cage Bonaparte, m'dear, before any of us ordinary mortals think of our own pleasure.'

Hortense had smiled at the remark and, as he held her cloak out for her, she said over her shoulder, 'You and I are no ordinary mortals, Nathaniel.'

He had merely grunted. To so much as acknowledge by the merest acquiescence any agreement with this braggadocio seemed to him, filled as he was with apprehension at her news, to be tempting providence most grievously.

Now he was left to his thoughts and they were in a turmoil. He found it difficult to clear his mind of the image of her. On deck, in the chill of the dawn, it was almost possible to believe it had all been a dream, a bilious consequence of dining too well at the royal table. Was that event any more real, he wondered? And then from his breast the faintest, lingering scent of her rose to his nostrils.

Yet the appearance of the curious 'French officer' had far greater importance than the temptation of Nathaniel Drinkwater. He was in little doubt of the truth of her asseveration. Drinkwater had only the sketchiest notions of the military position of the French army at the end of March, but he had gleaned enough in recent days to know that Napoleon's energies seemed little diminished. He had fought a vigorous campaign in the defence of France, only to be overwhelmed by superior numbers against which even his military genius was incapable of resistance. Finally, it was widely rumoured, it had been the defection of members of the marshalate in defence of their own interests which had prompted the Emperor's abdication.

Under the circumstances, Napoleon was an unlikely candidate for a quiescent exile. And across the Atlantic raged a savage war, a repeat of the struggle from which had emerged the independent United States of America. Drinkwater had cause to remember details of that terrible conflict; as a young midshipman he had tramped through the Carolina swamps and pine barrens and had seen atrocities committed on the bodies of the dead.[7] More recently, he had been involved in the last diplomatic mission intended to prevent a breach between London and Washington, and he knew of the efforts which the young republic was prepared to make to discomfit her old imperial enemy.[8]

Nor had his foiling of that effort settled the matter. Yankee ambition was like the Hydra; cut one head off and another appeared. Within a few months of destroying a powerful squadron of American privateers, Drinkwater had been made aware of an attempt by the French to supply the Americans with a quantity of arms. The desperate battle fought in the waters of Norway beneath the aurora may have prevented that fateful juncture, but it may not have been the only one; perhaps others, unbeknown to the British Admiralty's Secret Department which Drinkwater had so briefly headed, had taken place successfully. It seemed quite impossible that his individual efforts had entirely eliminated any such conjunction. In short, it seemed entirely likely that some arms had crossed the Atlantic and that Napoleon and devoted members of his Imperial Guard would follow.

In fact, Drinkwater concluded, it was not merely likely, it was a damned certainty! And then the memory of Hortense mimicking his English expletive flooded his memory so that he turned growling upon his heel and came face to face with Lieutenant Marlowe.

'What in damnation ... ?'

'Begging your pardon, sir ...'

'God's bones, what is it?'

'The French officer, sir ...'

'Well, sir, what of the French officer?'

'Are there any orders consequent upon the French officer's visit, sir?'

'Orders? What orders are you expecting Mr Marlowe, eh?'

'I am about to be relieved, sir, and under the circumstances, in company with the Royal Yacht, sir, and His Royal Highness ...'

Suddenly, just as Drinkwater was about to silence this locquacious young popinjay, the ludicrous pomposity of Prince William's title struck him. Overtired and overwrought he might be, distracted by the weight of Hortense's intelligence as much as that of her voluptuous body, he found the term 'Highness' so great a fatuity that he burst out laughing. And at the same time, as he thought of the coarse, rubicund and farting Clarence, he discovered the answer to the question that had been lurking insolubly in his semi-conscious.

'Indeed, Mr Marlowe, you do right to be expectant. The truth is I have been mulling over the best course of action to take as a consequence of that officer's visit, and now I'm happy to say you have acted very properly, sir.'

'Well, I'm glad of that, sir.'

'And so am I.'

'And the orders, sir ... ?'

Drinkwater looked at the young lieutenant's face. The sun was just rising and the light caught Marlowe's lean features in strong relief. He was a pleasant looking, pale fellow, with a dark beard, and the stubble was almost purple along his jaw. 'What d'you know of, er, His Royal Highness's habits, Mr Marlowe. I saw you hob-nobbin' with a couple of the Impregnable's, officers last night. One of them was the Prince's flag-luff, wasn't he? What I mean is, did either of the young blades tell you what o'clock the Prince rises?'

Marlowe was somewhat taken aback by his commander's perception. 'I know Bob Colville, sir, but I don't recall our discussing His Royal Highness's habits beyond the fact that he enjoys a bumper or two.'

'Or three, I daresay, but that don't serve.' Drinkwater mused for a moment, then added expansively, 'What I need to know, Mr Marlowe, is what is the earliest time I might see the Prince?'

'In a good humour I daresay too,' added Marlowe, smiling, extrapolating Drinkwater's intentions.

'To be frank, Mr Marlowe,' Drinkwater added, a tone of asperity creeping into his voice, 'I don't much care in what humour His Royal Highness is, just so long as he is sufficiently awake to understand what I wish to communicate to him.' Marlowe's look of astonishment at this apparent lèse-majesté further irritated Drinkwater who was conscious that he had confided too much in his untried subordinate. 'Have my gig ready in an hour, and pass word for my servant.'

As he shaved, Drinkwater turned over the idea he had. It seemed to have formed instantaneously whilst he had been importuned by Marlowe. The young officer had seen little service of an active nature, although his references spoke of several months on blockade duty off Brest. Still, that did not equate with a similar number of weeks in a frigate in a forward position or an independent cruise, though that was not poor Marlowe's fault. Drinkwater wondered if what he was currently meditating would appeal to Marlowe, whose career, at this onset of peace, seemed upon the brink of termination with no opportunity for him to distinguish himself. Perhaps it would not matter to the well-connected Marlowe, but it might to others, for quite different reasons.